


Scenes from the Dark Castle

by Flyting



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Snark, Vignettes, he's a difficult man to love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-01
Updated: 2015-09-01
Packaged: 2018-04-18 11:03:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4703654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flyting/pseuds/Flyting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The course of true love never did run smooth.</p>
<p>A collection of silly, snarky, and occasionally even sweet Rumbelle one-shots, set in the Dark Castle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Breakfast

“How long do you plan to make me sleep in the dungeon?” Belle asks one morning, impromptu of nothing.   
  
She hadn’t planned to just blurt it out like that; had been choosing her words and biding her time for days, in fact, waiting for a moment where she might manage to wheedle some sympathy out of him. But her back was aching, she had awakened this morning once again cold and stiff, with straw stuck in uncomfortable places, and Rumplestiltskin is picking at his breakfast like a fussy magpie.   
  
He liked to have her prepare a little bit of everything, only choosing what he’ll actually eat when it’s on the table before him. Belle has found no pattern to his appetites. Some days she watches in astonishment as he tucks away enough food to feed a small army, sending her scurrying back and forth to the kitchens for more of this dish or that jam. Other days he seems content with tea and toast that largely ends up crumbled all over the table and floor- and occasionally flicked at her head if he thinks she’s daydreaming instead of waiting patiently to clear the table.  
  
So, out the words slip.   
  
Once they do, Belle regrets them immediately.   
  
It is not quite a tea and toast day, but his mood is still uncertain. Every time Belle thinks she has started to be able to predict his whims she’s proven wrong.   
  
Still, they’re out now and there’s no taking them back.   
  
Rumplestiltskin sets down his teacup with exaggerated care and makes an elaborate show of thinking the question over, head cocked to one side and a finger pressed thoughtfully to his lips.   
  
Belle's eyes roll a little. She tries not to smile, she really does, but the absurdity of his showy gesticulations has begun to amuse her.   
  
She has wondered, alone in her little dungeon room, if this is a bad sign. Possibly it means she’s not sleeping enough. Or perhaps, with no one but him for company, she’ll started to go mad too. Was it possible to catch whatever ostentatious sort of madness Rumplestiltskin had?   
  
“Remind me, dearie, how long are you contracted to me for?” he says.   
  
Belle’s heart sinks, taking her burgeoning smile with it. “Forever.”   
  
He snaps his fingers, smirking. “Yes, that sounds about right.”   
  
Belle resists the urge to huff and stomp her foot. She is a lady, no matter how childish _his_ immaturity makes her feel.   
  
She does, however, take that moment to start clearing the dishes off the table, angrily piling half-full plates on top of each other, for once not caring a bit whether he’s finished or not.   
  
The affronted look he gives her when she yanks the plate of his favorite egg-bread right out from under his nose is almost enough to make up for the way her back will ache tonight sleeping on the dungeon floor.   
  
Almost.


	2. Moulting Season

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: Rumplestiltskin sheds his skin like a lizard.

_Scratch scratch scratch_  
  
The scratching is driving Belle mad.  
  
Well,  _moreso_. She’s fairly certain that weeks alone with only Rumplestiltskin for company has stolen at least a little bit of her sanity. She’s already started to find his inane little jokes funnny.  
  
Belle tries to keep her attention focused on her task- attempting to dust those hideous puppets of his without actually _touching_ them- but every few minutes there he goes again, long black nails on pebbled skin.  
  
 _Ssscratch scratchscratchscratch_  
  
She would say he's been acting strangely, but that would imply there was anything at all normal about his usual behavior. This was, it appeared, to her growing horror, some fresh and new kind of strange.   
  
He’d been tetchy and irritable for days, picking at his food and snapping at her for the tea being cold, for being too slow at delivering the straw for his wheel, and one particular afternoon both for breathing too loudly while she cleaned, _and_ for breathing too quietly so that he forgot she was there and startled himself.   
  
Belle has started to take this sudden onset of stroppiness in stride. His sharp tongue, no matter how barbed his words, means nothing more than waspishness, unlike than that smooth, quiet voice that meant real danger. The worst he does when he’s snappish is complain about her domestic skills, with a sort of childish pettiness that she finds it difficult to be really offended by.  
  
 _scritchscritchSsscratch  
  
_ Then there had been the flakes. She wasn't sure what else to call them. Glimmering little flakes of  _something-_ like a strange dry, brittle snow- suddenly seemed to be falling all over the castle. She never saw the magic that made them come down, but every day there were more of them strewn along the halls, dusted over his chair, or in little piles on the table. It's some sort of spell, clearly, but Belle cannot even begin to guess the point of it. So she sweeps them up, dutifully, just as she does with the dust and the stray pieces of straw.   
  
 _scritch     scritch                ssssscratchscritchchch-_  
  
The scratching however, she hasn't the faintest clue what to do about. At first she assumed that he was doing it solely to irritate her. Belle wouldn’t put it past him for a second. The way he only did it when she wasn’t looking had seemed to bolster that idea.   
  
So yesterday Belle had taken her cloth, and the heavy golden chalice she was polishing, and set herself at the other end of the long table, directly across from where he was taking his afternoon tea. The way he all but squirmed under her gaze, shifting uncomfortably in his chair, hands fluttering restlessly to his ears, his elbows, without touching, put paid to that theory. As had the eventual quiet  _scrrrtchscrrrt_ - of fingernails on leather when his twitching hands disappeared under the table.  
  
Rumplestiltskin had frozen mid-scratch when he caught Belle’s eyes on him, hands returning tableside to take a nonchalant sip of his tea.  
  
“Are you alright?” Belle had asked, leveling him with her best ‘no nonsense’ stare.   
  
He had let out one of those nervous, birdlike little flutters of laughter that she was almost starting to find endearing. “Fine. Fine. Perfectly fine,” and promptly ran from the room.  
  
No, Belle isn’t quite sure what’s wrong with Rumplestiltskin.   
  
But today she’s quite certain she caught him using his spinning wheel as a back-scratcher.


End file.
